


A Kiss of Cold

by Lyanna



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Castle Black, Gen, Gen Work, Multi, Post - A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyanna/pseuds/Lyanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My own storyline after the 5th book of A Song of Ice and Fire. Less complicated than the original (and probably more predictable). Spoiler-alert! Only read if you read ADWD</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss of Cold

**Author's Note:**

> So since G.R.R. Martin takes an eternity to write his next book, I thought I might just use my fantasy and write what I would think logical to happen next. By now it is probably an AU since Martin published three chapters from his new book already. I started with what is happening on the Wall and might just add a different chapter every few days/ weeks. Please tell me when I make grammar mistakes or have a flaw in the plotline. Hope you enjoy :)

 

The Priestess

 

Jon Snow was dying. For four days he had been fighting death now, constantly caught in feverish dreams. As Castle Black was in lack of a decent Maester, Melisandre had seen to his wounds and instructed his steward in how to treat him, yet the daggers had done a great amount of damage. Even if he were to recover, he would probably not be able to move anything below his neck. Melisandre had seen his kinds of wounds before. And now that the wounds had started festering, she had little hope for the Lord Commander. She had warned him several times, but he wouldn’t listen. _Daggers in the dark. Keep your wolf close._ If it hadn’t been for her, Lord Snow would have died there and then; stabbed by the men he called brothers. It was fate that had brought her to the fighting just in time to stop the black brothers in their madness, although the damage was already done. Even after she had called for help, it had taken three Queen’s men to drag the attackers away from their Lord Commander. By then, Jon Snow had already passed out and colored the snow red with blood.

Now it was up to Rh’llor to decide upon his fate. The attack had brought great tension to the Wall however. Every day it was heard of several deadly incidents in one or the other castle, usually a quarrel between the black brothers and the wildlings, but sometimes also Queen’s men and King’s men were involved. While the Watch was without commander, the Queen had taken control over the Wall for the time being.  Yet the priestess knew that they were walking on rotten ice, and every day the mood got tenser. The men of the Night’s Watch were split between those who were pleased by their Lord Commander’s prospective death and those who had been his friends and supporters. A new Lord Commander was to be chosen as soon as the old one was dead. Already there were candidates trying to gather followers, mainly a hard old man named Othell Yarwick who was the First Builder, and Jon Snow’s former Steward Bowen Marsh, one of the men who had tried to kill him. Both had already won a great number of supporters and both had promised the black brothers to rid them off the wildlings and the, as they called them, “dead king’s men”.

Yet Melisandre knew that her king was alive. After several months of searching his face in the flames, she had finally caught a glimpse of him in the fire the day before. He had sat on the Throne that was his birthright, a sword in hand and a crown on his head. She was looking for him at the very moment, but all she ever found was snow and grass. A wall of ice and snow and swaying grass and sometimes a horde of walking corpses. And dragons. She had first seen them on the day of the attack. There were three, a green, a white, and a monstrous black beast. She did not catch the meaning of it, did not know whether the flames were showing the future or only a possibility. They appeared ever more often. Usually it was the green and the white together while the black was on its own. Even now she thought she could glimpse a wing in the fire. Her eyes were burning with the heat, a pain which was a price she was eager to pay. Above the glimmering coals, the green dragon took wing. The ghostly vision of the creature appeared to be covered in snow, icicles hanging from his tail and head. Curious, Melisandre withstood the urge to lean closer to the fire.

A knock on her door disturbed her concentration. Reluctantly she turned her head away from the fire. “Step in” She recognized the man who entered the room as one of the Queen’s men, some lesser relative of the Florents; an old man with a mighty salt and pepper beard and an even mightier belly. “What is it?”, the red priestess asked impatiently while she turned her face back to the hearth. The vision was gone.

“There was a raven from Eastwatch by the Sea, Mylady. Her Grace, Queen Selyse, has instructed me to bring the letter to you”

Melisandre was not surprised. Although the Queen had eventually chosen to take up accommodation at the Nightfort, she would still send heralds to Castle Black daily in order to ask for advice or news from the priestess. The Florent produced the paper from the inside of his richly brocaded coat and handed it to her. She took it and turned it around. The black seal of the Night’s Watch was broken. Surely the Queen had read it before handing it over to Melisandre. “You may leave”, she said without lifting her head. As she heard the door being shut, she opened the letter. The first thing she noticed was that it was addressed to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Then she realized that it had been signed nearly a week ago. Wondering whether the raven had been caught up by the snow or whether the Queen had kept the letter from her for longer, she started to read the neatly written letter.

_Lord Snow,_

_Your ships have sunk. None has reached our port. No living wildings either. We can’t say we’re sad. Pity about the ships and the captains though. Nice ones they were. A shipwreck has turned up in the bay. It was hardly recognizable as a ship._

_Last night we found around two dozen dead wildlings washed ashore. The savages you sent us urged us to burn them. We buried them like decent men. Little hope for any survivors. Cotter Pyke was a friend._

_While we are awaiting your orders, the men have chosen me to be temporarily in command._

_Arrald Stone_

Those were bad news. Melisandre did not know the man who had written the letter, but she trusted his judgment. She had seen the upcoming deaths of the wildlings at Hardhome in her fires. The report about the corpses left her shivering though. She had half a mind to write a letter herself and urge them to dig up the dead and burn them, but she knew that it would come too late. After all, the letter was one week old. _The enemy is getting closer and closer._ She decided to search in the flames for answers or help. Stannis was gone, and she could not imagine that there was any salvation for the men on the Wall without Azor Ahai present, should the corpses at Eastwatch decide to rise.

Yet the flames revealed nothing to her. In the flickering hearth, all she saw were burning coals. She gave up on her efforts after staring helplessly into the fire for an hour. It was hopeless. With a sigh she got up and left her fire. Before she could open the door to her chamber, she saw a whirl in the flames from the corner of her eye. She span round and stared eagerly at her holy fireplace. There was movement going on. Melisandre stepped as close to the fire as possible. There he was. A man in the middle of the hearth, his faint outlines becoming ever more clear until she could recognize him. It was Jon Snow. He was alive, and not alone. In another corner of her fire the green dragon had appeared, as great a distance as possible away from the man in the flames, but flying towards him. In the other corner of the hearth, a kraken was swinging his tentacles towards both figures, and just as they met in the middle of the hearth, he grabbed them both with one long arm and flung them towards him. She did not understand. And just like that, as fast as the vision had appeared, it vanished again.

Desperate for more, the priestess searched the fire. She could not derive the meaning of this. All she knew was that Jon Snow would have to live, and yet he was as close to death as anyone could be. She saw the swaying grasslands she was used to flickering in the flames. It was no use. She had to make a decision, and quickly. Yes, she could not let him die. His role in the story was not yet played. Quickly she left her fireplace and gathered two old, dusty books from her shelf. It was old magic she was looking for, forbidden, black magic. Her eyes were racing through the pages until she found what she was looking for. The more she read, the deeper became her frown. The spell would require a great sacrifice, but she was willing to pay. _Who are you, Jon Snow? Why are you important?_ Melisandre grabbed the books and the herbs that would be needed, as well as her sharpest knife and swept through the door.

In the yard, the big white head of the direwolf was still stuck on the stick, a reminder of what many men of the Watch were thinking of wargs. The head of the giant they had called Wun Wun lay on the floor next to it, maggots already crawling from his eyes and the slashes on his cheeks. Apparently it had been too heavy for a stick. Disgusted, Melisandre hurried on It had been Yarwick Othell who had finally slain the giant, after two brothers of the Night’s Watch had been practically smashed to bloody porridge by the drunken giant. To her it was not pitiful. Giants and mammoths were creatures of the dark and the cold, creatures of the Other. The wolf’s death had been a shame though. She could sense that the animal would have been of great use, yet she had been unable to prevent the slaughter as soon as Jon Snow had been out of the way.

She left her dark thoughts behind as she stepped into the chamber of the Lord Commander. It smelled like death, like dead flesh and the sweat of the dying. His steward was present, the young Oldtown boy who used to be a whore. Melisandre threw the books on the floor and commanded: “Bring me a firebowl and wood. And do it fast” The boy seemed to be stunned by her sudden appearance, so she shouted “Hurry!”. That made him run without any further questions. While he was gone, the red priestess fetched a paper and a quill from a shelf by the window. She sat down and dipped the quill into a glass of black ink. She had been wrong. Or was she wrong now? Rash decisions were not usual for her, but now she had to act swiftly. Looking at the dying boy sleeping on the bed, so pale, so young, she hesitated. “Who are you, Jon Snow? Who was your father?”, she whispered. Then she began to write.

 


End file.
